


Game, Set, Match

by GlitchKitsch



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Angst, Arguing, Attempted Murder, Canon-Typical Violence, Future Fic, How Do I Tag, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Post-Canon, Sort Of, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-08-17 06:11:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16510844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GlitchKitsch/pseuds/GlitchKitsch
Summary: “What about you?” Ed says, barely more than a whisper. They’re inches apart, determined to maintain eye contact, as though the first one to break it would be admitting defeat. “Would I have killed you, too?”





	Game, Set, Match

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this about a month ago and finally convinced myself to post it. I wrote it as part of a personal prompt writing exercise, the prompt being 'hate'. This is the first fic I've published in 15 years and I'm terrified, so please go easy on me. Please excuse typos or grammatical errors, I do not have a beta or editor.

It’s a fine line, one that’s blurred by time and memories that fade, turning into something less than the truth but not quite a lie. 

There’s mounting tension in their every exchange, so palpable that every other rogue in the room can feel it. It suffocates everyone at the meeting until Tetch loudly suggests someone open window. Penguin snaps at him for interrupting, shooting him a glare nearly cold enough to chill the room. Tetch looks affronted but he shuts up, leaving Penguin and Riddler to pick up where they left off.

Every person there knows the argument will soon drift away from business and cross into more personal territory. Joker is the first to leave. He rises from the boardroom table without a word, Harley at his heels. It isn’t long until one by one, the others trickle out of the room until only Penguin and Riddler remain. But as their argument veers off course and the distance between them closes, they are no longer Penguin and Riddler. 

They are Oswald Cobblepot and Edward Nygma. Former colleagues, former friends, former…something else.

“I loved her,” Ed shouts, voice strained in anguish and drenched in wine. “And you killed her!”

“ _You_ killed her,” says Oswald, calm but matching Ed’s volume.

“No, not that one!” says Ed. “The other one! The blond one!”

“Does it matter?” Oswald laughs. “You would have killed them all, in the end. I suppose two out of three isn’t bad,” he says and brings his glass to his lips. 

Ed slaps the glass out of his hand. It shatters, spraying the floor with red wine and shards of crystal, the mirror image of his fractured mind. Oswald sighs, unperturbed.

Ed crowds his personal space. He’s gripping the arms of Oswald’s high backed chair, trapping him.

“What about you?” Ed says, barely more than a whisper. They’re inches apart, determined to maintain eye contact, as though the first one to break it would be admitting defeat. “Would I have killed you, too?”

“No,” says Oswald without missing a beat.

“How can you be so sure?” says Ed.

“Because I’m still alive.”

The atmosphere ignites.

Ed surges forward, crushing their lips together. Eyes open, neither concedes defeat.

The kiss is anything but soft; it’s all teeth, no finesse. It’s not love, not quite hate. It’s something more like symbiosis; one cannot exist without the other.

Ed forces his tongue into Oswald’s mouth, and Oswald nips it in return. Ed hisses and jerks back like he’s been shocked, runs his tongue along his teeth behind his lips. There doesn’t appear to be any serious damage, but he can taste a hint of copper. Oswald licks his own lips and smiles.

Ed clamps his hand around Oswald’s throat and presses him into the back of his chair. Oswald’s smile falters, just for a second, then he laughs.

“Oh please,” he says, looking up at Ed. If either have blinked yet, neither have noticed. 

“You won’t do it,” Oswald goads. “You _can’t_ do it. You still need me, Edward Nygma.”

“ _Don’t_ call me that,” Ed snarls. 

His grip tightens. He feels Oswald struggle to swallow beneath his palm.

“And do not tell me what I can and cannot do.”

Ed adds his other hand, adjusts to wrap them both around Oswald’s throat. He squeezes, pressing on his windpipe, and stares down into his eyes. He wants to watch him lose.

Oswald’s hands are wrapped loosely around Ed’s wrists; he doesn’t fight back. The whites of his eyes turn pink and tears slide free. Ed squeezes harder. Oswald’s hands fall to his lap. His eyelids flutter, nearly closed, when Ed huffs and releases him. 

Oswald blacks out for what could be a few seconds or a few years. Then he’s coughing, gasping as his brain forces him to breathe. He massages his throat and wipes away tears. When he regains his equilibrium and is sure he’s still alive, he realizes he is alone.

Ed is gone, the room is cold, and Oswald isn’t sure which one of them has won this time.


End file.
